


Stop, Rewind, Play

by Multikicker



Series: Second Chances [1]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: "Good" mat not be the operative word in that sentence, 1920's!Tracer, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Dark, Elf!Tracer, F/F, FYI, Last Moments, Major character death - Freeform, Multiple Selves, Multiverse, Parallel Universes, Pianist!Tracer, Rewinding Time Screws Stuff Up, Steampunk!Tracer, Talon!Tracer, This is going to be a prequel to a longer story, Time Travel, but in a good way
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-26
Updated: 2017-06-08
Packaged: 2018-10-10 18:53:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,322
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10444935
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Multikicker/pseuds/Multikicker
Summary: Not everyone gets a second chance. Many that deserve them don't. Many that don't deserve them do.Newton's Third Law of Motion: For every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction.For every end, a new beginning. For every beginning, an end.Tracer is about to find out that what matters most isn't getting a second chance, but what you do with it.





	1. An Ending

**Author's Note:**

> This stuff kinda just popped into my head after some ruminating. I hope you enjoy, and I apologize in advance for any mistakes or poor grammar, as I'm a way better reader than a writer.
> 
> Any space-time logic in this was conceived in my hellpit of a mind, and therefore may not make sense to everyone. I'll do my best to explain it logically.

Pain spiked through her leg as Lena Oxton limped through the dingy King’s Row back alley. She was pretty sure it was broken, and, as if she weren’t already completely screwed, there were  moderate cuts, scrapes, and gashes covering her from head to toe. She paid them no mind. Fear drove her forward.

She stumbled forward, trying to catch herself on the wall, but it was slick with lichen and neglect; she slipped, suddenly careening towards the cobbled street below. As her head impacted the pavement with a sickening crack, her vision flashed momentarily before coming back into focus.

 _This alley looks much worse when you’re parallel to the floor,_ she thought, chronal accelerator sparking in the grimy puddle that had caught her failing body.

Then, disassociation and reflection done with, the sense of urgency returned. Fight or flight. Definitely flight.

“Bollocks,” she hissed, pushing feebly at the stalwart pavement, trying to leverage herself up. “Bollocks, bollocks, **_bollocks!_** ” Finally, she managed to right herself into what resembled a sitting position.

Too little, too late. A misty black shadow swept into the side street, coalescing in front of her into the dark and menacing form of Reaper.

 **‘You’re not looking too good, Oxton,’** he commented, his voice offhand, as if casually observing the weather. **‘Not so fast anymore, are you?’**

There was a hint of condescension in his voice that she would have dearly loved to beat out of him, but the tables were turned on her, and there didn’t appear to be a way out of this one.

“You’d know, wouldn’t ya, mate?” Lena tried to inject some venom into her voice, but it was impeded by that blood flowing from a gash in her gums. “You put me here, Edgelord, so tell me: do I **_look_ ** like I’m feeling 100% right now,” she asked, mustering up the last scraps of cheek left in her, her final vestiges of defiance.

Reaper chuckled, a rasping, charnel, sound, like gravel going through a food processor. **‘I suppose not.’**

The masked mercenary dropped one of his oversized shotguns, and it vanished into the same blackness that comprised his murky form. With a ripple of motion, the remaining gun was brought to bear at Lena’s accelerator, just above her heart.

 **‘I’ll tell you something, Tracer,’** Reaper whispered conspiratorially, leaning over her, a grim specter. **‘You’re not like the rest of them. The rest of Overwatch. You’ve suffered, not shallow pain, but true, agonizing, rending suffering. You’ve been through hell. For that, and your perseverance, you have earned my respect.’**

It was coming, that much was apparent. All Lena could do now was accept her end with the dignity of a hero.

 **‘I will grant you a quick death,’** he concluded.

Reaper straightened up, and his next words had the finality of a benediction.

**‘Domine mi, super locum in inferis, haec dona anima relaxari peccatum suum: Mors solum initium est.** **Amen.’**

The muzzle of the shotgun lit up, and Lena’s world flashed white with glare. Then came the pain.

 

Pain, horrible pain, worse than anything she’d ever felt, worse even than being unstuck in time, worse than the whole Slipstream ordeal, lit up her nerve endings as her already damaged body was riddled with buckshot.

It was as if a thousand small meteors, each shot at the speed of light, had been driven into every inch of her torso, and made to stay there by some unseen gravitic force. It was agony manifest.

Her accelerator shattered, smoking, shards of glass and metal hitting the pavement. It sparked and flickered; once, twice, three times, and failed outright.

Time bent, stretched, and twisted as she began to fade out of existence.

“Damn it……….I didn’t want it to end this way……” Her breathing was ragged, her mouth filled with blood and mucous. “I need more _time_ …….heh………..” Death often brings about morbid humor, and Lena knew she was certainly no exception. “That’s ironic, ain’t it?”

Lena was aware she was rambling on, but she didn’t care. She was dying, she’d earned a few seconds of unadulterated chatter, a last exercise of free speech.

Her last thought before her vision blacked out was of a certain blue-skinned sniper, and a wonderful dance never quite finished.

“Sorry, love,” she croaked into the darkness, “It looks like you’re going to solo from now on.”

 

The shadows rose up to claim her.

 

~ STOP ~


	2. Do You Recall?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this took too damn long. writing 4 different versions of the same character at once is terrifying and should not be attempted. meanwhile, enjoy my shameful Restaurant At The End Of The Universe reference.

The next thing she knew, Lena awoke to the same view she had just left: lying on her side in a cobbled alley in King’s Row. Immediately, however, some notable differences became apparent.

_Where in the world am I_ , she wondered, standing up to better view her surroundings. While this place clearly resembled King’s Row a great deal, the whole of it was cast in a gritty noir that made discerning colors difficult. Furthermore, the majority of the buildings rotated and floated through space, the fragments of earth they were anchored to drifting around on a shifting backdrop of glittering stars.

The only cohesive thing about the maelstrom – for that was surely, she decided, the only way to describe it – was the cobbled path, leading further on through the starfield. Near the end of the path was a faint glimpse of warmth, a small splash of colors on the edge of her vision.

“I guess I’d better get going, then,” she said, more for her own benefit than anything else.

Feet feeling leaden, she began to follow the winding track towards the source of the light, inwardly cursing herself for her curiosity.

As she walked, her thoughts turned to her last living moments (because this surely wasn’t the mortal coil), and her inglorious, agonizing death at the hands of a reject from ‘Walt Disney’s Haunted Mansion’.

_Well, it wasn’t the way I wanted to go out, but it beats several of the alternatives_ , Lena ruminated, trudging along. _It’s not like all of us get to choose our end._

Around her, shapes materialized and dematerialized from the shadows, snapshots of her life formed from the wispy darkness that comprised this strange realm. Scenes from her past followed her as she walked, memories appearing in her peripheral vision. The Slipstream Incident. Her acceptance into the RAF. Winston and Angela working to install her chronal accelerator. The destruction of the Swiss headquarters. Those, and so many more like them, flashed past, a collection of recollections from her personal history.

As she moved closer to the source of the light, its blurred shape resolved itself into another building, noticeably removed from the rest.

It was a bar, brightly lit and inviting against the dark pallor of the rest of this strange world. A neon sign, written in an Art Deco font, proclaimed the establishment’s title proudly: ‘The Recall’. Next to it was a flickering graphic of a fighter jet, blinking in and out of existence. The faint sound of smooth jazz reached Lena’s ears as she approached the door, hand reaching out to grasp the handle.

She flung open the door and crossed the threshold, ready for whatever met her on the other side.

* * *

 

The inside of the bar was filled with an eclectic mix of items, artefacts taken from many time periods and civilizations, many of which Lena did not recognize. She got two steps into the building before the jazz music wound down, and with a loud click, a jukebox in the corner began to play the opening chords of Michael Jackson’s “Man in the Mirror”. As far as she could tell, there were only 5 people in the bar besides her. The door closed behind her with the tinkle of a bell, signaling her arrival to the room’s occupants. The closest of these, a lithe figure in a green cloak sporting a mop of brown hair, looked up at her, and Lena found herself looking into a face that – while featuring minor differences, to be sure – was uncomfortably and unmistakably her own.

The doppelganger let out a cry of delight, leaped up, and dashed over to where she was standing, taking her hand and pumping it enthusiastically.

“Hello, love! How’s it hanging,” said the other her, all smiles and energy. She didn’t even have time to answer before her cloaked twin carried on speaking, rattling off words like an overanxious turret gunner. “Blimey, it’s good to see a familiar face around here! It’s been too long since we’ve had any company around, hasn’t it, El?” This last remark was directed behind her, where another version of her, clothed in a suit and tailcoat, sat at a piano, playing along to the music.

The pianist looked up, again with _her_ face, and responded to the query in a sardonic tone. “It’s been a week, Lynia. Will you calm down for 5 seconds? You’re going to give the poor girl a heart attack with all of your yammering.”

“I know, I know,” ‘Lynia’ said exasperatedly, “I’m just excited to meet a new Lena. It’s interesting how we’re all different and yet – “

“Stop rambling, Green,” interjected a harsh voice. “This one’s been through some serious shit. I can tell.”

Lena directed her gaze towards this new voice, and her rebuttal caught in her throat as she saw the speaker.

Leaning back in an office chair behind the bar, tossing darts at a photo of Jack Morrison tacked to a dartboard, was a version of Lena that looked like she’d gotten the bad end in a choose-your-own-adventure book  - or else made all the wrong decisions in a Bioware game. The woman had raven hair and sported visceral red eyes not at all dulled by the dark goggles she was wearing. As she slid them off her face those eyes seemed to pierce right through Lena’s soul, scrutinizing her intensely. Furthermore, this iteration was clad in a dark version of Lena’s kit, emblazoned with the Talon emblem. The glow of her accelerator was a deep vermilion hue.

“You look like ya could use a drink, mate,” continued her dark mirror, standing up and pulling a pint glass from beneath the bar. “Believe me; I’ve seen enough of us to know that look. You’ve got “I’m beat” written all over you. ‘S good for you, though,  I know just the thing.” She walked over to the liquor rack and pulled a bottle off the shelf, pouring its contents into the pint. Slowly, the glass filled with a vibrant orange liquid. Once she was done, the woman slid the glass across the bar in Lena’s direction.

She reached out and grabbed the glass, taking a sip of the drink contained within. It filled her with the warmth that only alcohol could bring, and it tasted of lemons and oranges in the best way possible.

“Thanks, uh, - “. It was only when she tried to express her gratitude that Lena realized she didn’t know the shadow’s name. Luckily for her, the woman seemed to guess where she was headed with her comment.

“I’m Slipstream, mate,” said the red-eyed woman. “Only name I’ve ever known.” She gave Lena a wide smile that was completely at odds with her entire aesthetic. “Glad you like the drink, in any case. I’ve always found liquor to be a great pick-me-up.” Slipstream gave Lena an appraising look. “Finish it all off, I reckon,” she said with a knowing glance. “It’s best to have something in you before you realize that you’re dead.”

“I appreciate the advice, love,” Lena said, warming up a bit. Despite the obvious reasons, there was something friendly about Slipstream. “Nicest thing anyone in a Talon uniform’s ever said to me, now that I stop an’ think.”

“Well, I don’t doubt that,” Slipstream replied with a chuckle. “I guess I was right in thinking that you were one of the ones who didn’t get their happy endin’.”

“What -”, Lena began, but the strangely compassionate Talon agent cut her off with a solemn shake of the head and a grimace.

“I can’t tell ya any more, love,” Slipstream said apologetically. “Ain’t my job, ya know. Shouldn’t ‘a told you that. Said too much already. It ain’t my piece to say. You’ll hear it all from Lenny in a sec, anyway.” Shooting Lena a abashed look, she turned away to replace bottles behind the bar.

Feeling intrigued, Lena considered pursuing further questioning, but was interrupted by ‘Lynia’’s voice, calling to her.

“Hey, mate, over here!” The green-cloaked woman had moved, and was now waving at Lena from a table in the corner, sitting there with another one of her ever-present doubles.

This version of her was an older woman, face lined with age and emotion. She wore a typical black suit and tie, covered with a beige trench coat; perched upon her head was an old and worn fedora. A gleaming badge emblazoned with DETECTIVE – CHICAGO POLICE DEPARTMENT hung from a leather cord around her neck, and her Lena-typical brown hair was shot through with grey. Hanging from her belt was a .44 magnum revolver, loose in its holster.

Basically, though Lena as she slid into the proffered seat, she looked like a British-American version of Captain Amari. Old, strong, tough as nails, and not someone you’d want to cross.

As she slid into the chair opposite from her, the older woman took a long drink from her glass, which was filled to the brim with what looked like a mix of Cherry Coke and Scotch, before initiating conversation.

“So,” said the older woman with a small grin, “I expect you’re wonderin’ where exactly ya are.”

Lena opened her mouth to answer, but the other woman cut her off. “It was rhetorical. Every one of us that set foot in here has had that question. I imagine it’s a very strange thing to die and wake up in the literal Twilight Zone.” She trailed off, shooting Lena a look when she didn’t respond. “That one wasn’t rhetorical,” she clarified.

“What? Oh, yeah, no, it’s been a strange day,” Lena stammered, caught off guard. “It’s not like I expected to get shot up in an alley, or be transported to Magical 1940’s Bar Place. I don’t think anyone expects somethin’ like that, do they?”

Her double chuckled. “No, I don’t suppose they do. I’m Lenny, by the way.” She stuck out her hand, and Lena shook it.

“Now,” Lenny continued, “I’m going to explain a few things that might answer a few of your questions. First: This is the Recall. I built it when I first showed up here as a place for Lenas to stop before they pass on.”

“Pass on?”, asked Lena with a quizzical raise of an eyebrow.

“Yeah, pass on. See, this space is a sort of…crossing point for us. Due to the Slipstream incident, time rippled and cracked, connecting all versions of Lena – you – across the multiverse. As a consequence, every Lena comes to a space like this before they have an opportunity to cross over into The Beyond. Those spaces are called Waystations, and the good ‘ol Recall here is Waystation W-12. We get all sorts ‘round here. Take Lynia here for an example,” she said, pointing to her companion. “Show her, Lny.”

Lynia smiled and, with a flourish, pushed up her hair to reveal her ears, which were **_pointed._**

“You’re a – an –“, Lena spluttered. “An elf, yeah. Pretty cool, right?” In that moment, Lena wanted nothing more than to wipe that smug-ass smile off her double’s face, but she suspected it wouldn’t be worth it to try.

“Anway,” Lenny said, a bit forcefully, “Now you know the gist. Like I said, we get all types ‘round here. I’m from Chicago, Lynia’s from some place called Peram, El’s a world-famous pianist from a world where the States never existed, and Slipstream’s the most atypical Talon agent I’ve ever seen.” She pointed at the last person in the bar, a Lena in a garish and decorated military uniform. “Hell, the Corporal’s from some Steampunk-Victorian era. So like I said, all sorts. But there’s a defining line that separates all of us that stick around here: none of us got our happy endings.” A small smile flickered across Lenny’s face as she said this, and Lynia grabbed her shoulder bracingly.

“You don’t have to tell ‘er, Len. No one’ll blame you. You’ve said enough.” The elf sounded sad and resigned, as if this had all happened before.

“No.” Lenny sounded determined. “It’ll only get better if I talk about it. Besides, after nearly 300 years, you’d think I’d be used to it.” She looked up and met Lena’s eyes, sighing. “I was working a case, big one. Rampant corruption in the mayoral office, that whole thing. I was getting real close to cracking it, too. I only needed one or two more pieces of crucial evidence, and I could bag them all.” She exhaled and shuddered. “I still remember the day I came home to find Emily gone, and that bloody piece of paper….”

Lena’s face fell, and she couldn’t find even find words. It sounded exactly like when she had found out what happened to Amélie.

“They wanted me to bring them my evidence. Said if I brought it to ‘em, they’d let her go.” Lenny was crying now, tears dripping onto the table. “But I knew what she’d say to me. My Emily would’ve told me to………….to do what was right. To make sure they faced justice. So I got the evidence. I stood at the witness stand, and two days later I got a photograph in the mail. Emily, limp in a chair, with a bullet hole in her forehead.” She choked back a sob. “That night, I tendered my resignation, got drunk as all fuck, went to the bridge, and jumped. I’ve been here ever since.” Drying her eyes, she looked up again.

“We’ve all got stories like that. Lynia and her friends failed to stop a lich from destroying their world.” From beside her, Lynia hissed in aggravation. “Oh, we had him dead to rights, but his stupid-BULLSHIT-CONTINGENCY SPELLS.” Lenny patted her arm in a weary way. “I know, mate. You did your best.  S’not  your fault. Anyway. The pressure to perform got to El and she had a stroke. The Corporal fell in love with a French girl she met on tour, and a couple weeks later the Germans slaughtered her entire village. Slipstream’s story is………….complicated. Any chance you wanna tell us how you went out?”

The question was light, nonchalant, at complete odds with the subject matter, and Lena found that telling someone might erase some of the pain. “Reaper - Reyes, I mean – got me. Shotgun blast to the accelerator at close range. No avoiding it, really. Occupational hazard. Hulking edgelords that shop at Hot Topic and carry lethal weapons? Comes with the job. Not the best way to go, but, it’s whatever.”

Lenny smiled weakly. “You own it. Good. Regrets are a hindrance, and hindsight is 20/20, but we had our shot. Not many get a second chance, an’ it’s highly unlikely that we’re the lucky few. It’s best to get it over with and pass on. That is, if you’d like to.” Her voice wavered again. “Y’could stay here, if ya wanted to. We’re not so bad, just a little……jagged around the edges. You know the drill: ‘Broken on our own, stronger together.’ That kinda thing.”

Lena choked back a ‘yes’, stopping to think for a bit. There was no guarantee that the people she cared about would be there waiting for her when she passed on, and Angie and Winston could wait a little bit while she stayed here. Having people to talk with sounded nice, at least ones with shared experiences.

“Yeah.” she said, clapping Lenny on the shoulder. “Let’s get this party started, right?”

As she leaned over and gave the aged detective a quick hug, the phone behind the bar began to ring.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> feedback and constructive is appreciated. thanks for bearing with me while I try and steer this train wreck.

**Author's Note:**

> 'Domine mi, super locum in inferis, haec dona anima relaxari peccatum suum: Mors solum initium est.’  
> =  
> Dear lord, upon passage to the underworld, grant this soul release from its sin, for death is only the beginning.
> 
> Annnnnndddddd, that's the first chapter. Tracer's dead, let's see what happens from here!
> 
> I'd appreciate any feedback you have, please leave it in the comments.
> 
> Next chapter sneak preview: Just think in the vein of 'The Restaurant at the End of the Universe'.


End file.
